Lace whips her attention from the lane up to me. “Not officially, no. New girl. Chaz called her that the day you all got here. Apparently it stuck.”
She returns her attention to Snow, focus narrowing on her. Over the sea of heads and across the lanes, Chaz, Bay, and Vee are just wrapping up a conversation. Vee has moved on to scarfing up the rest of the turkey leg and tea Lace saved for him.
Lace grabs my hand again and starts tugging me toward the back of the audience. “There is a special booth I want to take you to. Come on.” She flashes me a bright smile over her shoulder. With her looking at me like that, she could take me to a bug spray vendor, and I would be fine with it.
Before Chaz and Bay rejoin us, and once we clear the loud crowd, I get her attention, feeling like this may be the best time to address something with her that I have been holding back. “Lace?”
“Yeah, Fawn?” Her touch may have made my balls ache, but hearing her call me that nickname messes with my heart. I lock up, words forgotten and gaze tracking to the tips of my boots.
After a few silent minutes between us punctured only by the chatter and revving of engines from the event, she squeezes my fingers.
My gaze darts to our hands and slowly wanders up to her face. Again, I try to tell her what I set out to, but it comes out as only a mumbly whisper.
“What?” she asks, eyebrows curving inward.
“S-sorry,” I mumble a little louder this time. “About last night. Invading your privacy.”
She chuckles and shakes her head. “Big bad motorcycle club guy rule 197: never be sorry.” She sighs and squeezes my hand again. “I know you are, hun. Trust me, I know. It gets easier. One day you will do all the nasty shit and not feel a lick of remorse. Do you see me apologizing for what I did to you? Both of us were acting in survival mode. That is just how things go in this lifestyle.” I never expected an apology. Guess the same goes for her.
Lace comes to a stop, smiles up at me, then drags her focus to the booth in front of us. My eyes track her sightline to the banner hanging across the top of the tent: Christian Riders of America.
Swallowing hard, I glance over my shoulder. Baylor and Chaz keep their distance as though the what the booth represents will change them forever — seep into their bloodstream and infect them. Feeling bitter about my past, I agree with their decision to keep a wide berth.
“Tell me, Fawn, why did you join Hell for Leather and not a club like the White Horsemen or something?”
My entire body winds tightly. Instead of her hand doing the squeezing, this time mine does. I climb my focus up to the sky, feeling the tightening of my nostrils as I try to take a slow and controlled inhale. Loosening my ticking jaw, I respond with a hedgy, “I... lost a little of my faith over time.”
As though she anticipated this response, she barks out, “Bullshit. You still have your faith; someone just stained it.”
My attention snaps right back down to her face. I know Lace means well and that her question stems from my unsolicited forgiveness this morning, but for as smart as she is and admittedly more versed in this way of life, what she did to me is nothing compared to what I have gone through, both during my childhood and as part of my initiation into Hell for Leather. Forgiving her was warranted. Forgiving the people who splattered me with those stains is not. Nor will it ever be. Not by me, at least.
Lace stubbornly sets her shoulders. “Just because Hell for Leather screwed me over, do you think for one second I am gonna let that deter my passions?”
“I cannot have both, Lace,” I grind out through my teeth, my gaze darting toward the men behind the table and back to her. One of the many is facing away from us, the back of his cut threaded with a white horse — the first of the four horsemen, representing Christ, I assume — in the center of a crown. “I had to choose. For a lot of years... my entire life... I chose my faith. Now, I choose Hell for Leather. Before Brodi found me, all my faith had been lost. Gone. I was over it, Lace. My position as Chaplain at least gives me an outlet. But that is all it will ever be.”
“Lacinda!” a man behind the table booms. Her mouth ticks to the side. My eyes strain wide open. She spins on her heels, saunters over to the table, and leans in, her boobs nearly popping out of her leather top as she reaches forward to embrace the man. “Who is your new friend?” he asks.
“This is Zane, Hell for Leather’s new Chaplain.”
The man curves his lips downward in an expression of appreciation, holds out his hand, and greets me with a friendly, “Nice to meet you, brother.”
Out of the sheer pressure of societal habit, I thrust out my hand, firmly wrap my fingers around his palm, and give it a firm shake.
A warm, feminine, whispery voice hits my ear. “Chuck is one of my top paying regulars. Christianity cannot be defined in any singular way, hun. Of all people, you should know that. Believers come in many shapes, sizes, translations... and hobbies.”